Dominican Girls Don't Do Minimalism

by Grace Sofia 

My earrings are as loud as my voice during the times I’m supposed to be quiet. Church, the library, class, or work. They’re big chunky gold hoops, or they’re layers of inherited gold with not-so-subtle diamonds crawling up my ear. They twinkle on the sides of my head, clinking against one another as I walk. Or skip. Or salsa my way down the city streets. Sometimes my hoops are thin, but dangle down to my shoulder tops. Those are some of my favorites to wear because I can see them from the corners of my eyes when I’m looking ahead. 

I don’t mind the subway, it doesn’t dim the shine of my jewelry. The rings on my fingers sparkle in the light, reflecting my face back to me. My heels dig into the weird flooring of the cart, and my long trench wraps around me in a bold deep yellow. I am light. A glowing blob of yellow and gold and diamonds. I blur through the streets and underground passageways in a dazzling cloud of smoke. Alluring and disappearing at the same time. 

The jewelry feels heavy at first, it always does like a reminder of what I’m carrying, that it’s more than just me. Then, it becomes this armor that feels like a shield protecting me from the minimalist warriors who want me to give up the parts of me that scream the loudest. 

Never touch silver, because I am a Caribbean girl through and through. I wear gold because there’s treasure buried underneath the entire island of the Dominican Republic (and Haiti too), and I believe that treasure is me. 

My long nails click and clack. 

My curls loop and whirl. 

My hips swerve and sway. 

My laugh carries me away. 

It’s loud and boisterous, it draws attention the same way my body does or my hair or my big ass lips. Everything about me is loud. It forces people to notice who I am, where I’m going, and where I’ve been. Even when they want nothing to do with me. 

Dominican girls don’t do minimalism. 

We don’t even consider a slick back bun unless there is no other option. We don’t care for less when we want more. My outfit has layers of colors and fabrics. Wool pants, silk shirt, long soft trench. Somehow none the same, yet cohesively telling the same story. 

Minimalism is white walls and neutral decors while Dominicans use plastic over their floral couches that make funny noises when you move. The colors don’t match, the patterns clash, and yet it’s cozy and feels safer than those lack of life homes. 

Minimalism strips us of our color, our culture, and our cohesive disharmony. It does so in the way it removes the music in our hips that move to the same beat, but in different hits and twists. It takes away our disorganized reunions and makes them organized meetings. They seem so similar, but are in fact very different. Minimalists want to exist minimally, take up as little space as possible while Dominican culture is everything but. It’s my mother and my grandmother passing down their old chunky rings and necklaces, melting them down to get our names plated or whatever they do. 

Being Dominican in New York is even more layered. Gold rings that shine and reflect against the piss on the subway floors. I can hear bachata in my ear phones, shaking my curls and clinking my earrings to the beat. The girls with their slick back buns and subtle blush stare at me in my bold brown liner and clothes layered with texture. But why should I be like them? When my mother moved hundreds of miles from home not knowing the language? When my dad made a life for my family here? When my grandparents raised tens of kids, and each one loved us more than their parents loved them.